Good Blood, Bad Blood

“It is a serious thing

just to be alive

on this fresh morning

in the broken world.”

Mary Oliver

A breeze puffs and stops. The neighbor’s oak leaves float across our fence. They dance, twirling in descent, and settle atop the river rock in my yard. Friction with the earth holds them in abeyance of my rake. I’ll postpone the gathering for later. This morning, I’m off again to the mountains for a short hike. 

I stop for gas. I merge onto Tucker Road. The warning lights above the dashboard come on. I ignore them. I turn left at the site where the old drive-in theater used to be. It’s now a light industrial park with small businesses. Straight ahead is another drive-in, Twin Peaks, home of a juicy four napkin mushroom burger. I’ll save it for another day … I’ve lunch in my day pack.

Just ahead, I ease down Tucker Hill. At the bottom, I pass the shop where Beansprout musical instruments are created. There’s no sign, but serious luthiers live and work here. These humble craftspeople have an international reputation. They produce some of the world’s most sought after ukuleles and banjos.

Just beyond the shop, I cross Tucker Bridge, which spans the Hood River. A hard right puts me on the 281 heading south. The road climbs through the foothills of Mt. Hood. There are farms, woodlands, and small rural enclaves. Maple trees decorate the view with their colorful autumnal transformation. 

I see yard signs for the upcoming election. There’s no consensus. This reflects polling, media opinions, and the high level of political anxiety. One side promotes hate and vengeance. The other side promotes optimism and change. What’s gonna happen?

A solitary autumn leaf.

The casual beauty of autumn.

Maples in autumn in my neighborhood.

From our home in Hood River, it’s sixteen miles to the small town of Parkdale. There’s a grocery store, post office, and hardware. Two restaurants and a brew pub occupy the quiet main street. An elementary school sits a block back from the highway. It’s where our sons went to school. It’s the same school our grandchildren now attend. We have roots in this valley. Two miles further on, the highway merges with the 35 and enters the Mt. Hood National Forest. My destination is the Tamanawas Falls trailhead.

Once again, I’m hiking solo. When friends visit from out of town, this is often our destination. I’ve experienced it through the eyes of more people than I can remember. Today, I wish to be invisible. I’ll share the experience of wonder, but with photos not company. 

I have a new hiking pole. I wear light gloves. The sky is partly cloudy. It’s cool. The trail is about four miles roundtrip. Not long, but I’m testing my suspect stamina.

The trailhead to Tamanawas Falls.

Deciduous trees and conifers merge in the forest.

The well worn path to Tamanawas Falls.

A bridge crossing Cold Springs Creek on the Tamanawas Falls trail.

The view looking north from the infusatorium on the day I received my RBCs.

There are plenty of hikers. Some passed me on the way to the falls. Then, they passed me on their way back. I struggled. Each little incline caused my internal check engine light to blink. Nothing gets your attention like being short of breath. Near the end, about a tenth of a mile from the falls, I stopped. I ate a banana. I drank some water. And, I resigned myself to turning back. I had nothing more to prove.

My body felt as unpredictable as the election. I accepted the lesson. Be patient. The quirky malignancy in my blood deserves respect. Healing is a process. I rested. I ate a sandwich. I started the truck. I drove home through the glory of autumn light.

P.S. Two days later I received a transfusion of red blood cells. Perhaps soon, I’ll be hiking again.

P.S. #2 Vote.